


Comes With The Territory

by annabagnell



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Belly Kink, Belly Rubs, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Humiliation, Humiliation kink, Hurt/Comfort, Lactation Kink, M/M, Male Lactation, Mpreg, belly stuffing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-06
Updated: 2014-04-06
Packaged: 2018-01-18 08:36:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1421719
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annabagnell/pseuds/annabagnell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I think tonight would be a good night to put our mutual good moods to use,” Mycroft murmured, and a shiver ran down Greg’s spine. </p><p>“That just a fancy way of asking for a leg over?” Greg replied, but couldn’t disguise the slight tremor to his voice, betraying the sudden arousal he’d found himself in possession of. </p><p>“It’s a fancy way of asking for you to take me,” Mycroft replied.</p><p>----</p><p>Mystrade mpreg fic commission!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Comes With The Territory

**Author's Note:**

> First foray into Mystrade! A super long commission with mpreg, belly kink, pregnancy kink, belly stuffing, lactation kink, and birth! Hope you all enjoy!
> 
> If you want to commission me, check out annabagnell.tumblr.com/commissions! And follow me, of course.

Pregnancy was treating Mycroft well. 

 

Not only was he now allowed to eat whatever he liked, in whatever quantities he desired, but the sense of fulfillment that having Greg’s baby gave him was indescribably _right._ After having tried so long for a baby, to know that he was finally giving Greg what he wanted felt like his biggest and best accomplishment - even more so than that matter in India, or the one in Tehran. 

 

Mycroft enjoyed the physical changes, as well. The swell of his belly, growing bigger with each passing week, lending solidity to soft curves. Each week’s growth, documented in neat, square letters in a journal, gave Mycroft reason to smile when he laid aside yet another shirt he’d outgrown. 

 

He was well into his fourth month when he started to really show, and Greg was overjoyed. Mycroft entered the front room clad in pyjama bottoms and his robe, the curve of his belly just visible under the thick terrycloth. Greg looked up from his newspaper and morning coffee, a smile spreading across his face. “Mornin’, love,” he said, folding the paper shut with a neat shuffle and setting it aside. “You slept a little later than usual.” 

 

“Minor fatigue,” Mycroft replied, with only a hint of his usual acerbic reaction to such talk of laziness. “Comes with the territory, from my understanding.” He stifled a yawn as he reached for a glass, pulling a container of orange juice from the refrigerator and pouring a partial cup. 

 

“Growing that little baby making you tired, eh?” Greg jabbed, kicking back in his chair and crossing his arms as he watched Mycroft putter around with breakfast. 

 

“Won’t be so ‘little’ for long.” Mycroft gave a rare grin and sat himself down across from Greg at the table, reaching across to steal a slice of toast from Greg’s forgotten breakfast plate. “Should start moving soon, according to the doctor.” 

 

“Cor, won’t that be amazing,” Greg sighed, slightly dreamily, running a palm down the side of his face, imagining. “You’ll be able to feel our baby _move._ ” Mycroft smiled and nodded in reply, nibbling on a corner of his stolen toast and pulling the paper across to read the headlines. He smiled even wider as he saw the resolution of the Albanian issue as the headline - old news to him, but apparently breaking today. “Was that you?” Greg asked, leaning across to re-read the headline. 

 

“Indeed.” Mycroft scanned the article and then pushed it aside, laying a hand absently over his stomach and taking another bite of his toast. His belly was a little rounder, a little firmer under his hand, and he drummed his fingers over the small bulge for a few moments before he polished off his toast and pushed himself to his feet again. “Dinner tonight?” he inquired, licking a few stray crumbs off his fingers as he looked down at his mate. 

 

Greg blinked for a moment and then nodded in agreement. “That’ll be the first time you’ve been free in weeks,” he replied, looking a little bewildered. 

 

Mycroft smiled. “With this in the paper-“ he gestured downwards - “my evening is, surprisingly, free. I can have Anthea make reservations,” he offered. 

 

Greg grinned back and crossed his arms again, happiness warming his core and chest. “That would be great.” 

 

Mycroft nodded and pulled his mobile out of the pocket of his robe, texting Anthea (presumably) as he wandered absently out of the room. Greg watched him for a few moments before chuckling and turning back to his paper. 

 

* * *

 

 

The restaurant was damn nice, Greg reflected, and he was glad he’d put on his good suit coat. Mycroft’s texts as to dress code had been vague at best, but after a quick Google search Greg had worked out that showing up in a jumper and jeans wouldn’t do. As it was, the maître d’ apparently knew exactly who Greg was supposed to be with, and ushered him towards the back of the restaurant, where no doubt Mycroft was waiting. 

 

Sure enough, as he rounded the corner, Mycroft looked up from his leather-bound menu and gave Greg a small smile. “Sorry I’m late,” Greg said, settling into the chair opposite his mateand unbuttoning his suit jacket. “Traffic was -“ 

 

“Terrible, I know.” Mycroft tapped his pocket, where his mobile was, indicating he’d read the flurry of apologetic texts Greg had sent as he rode impatiently in the back of the cab. “It’s no worry. I ordered wine for you, as I can no longer indulge.” 

 

Greg glanced down to the glass of red on the table and then looked back up with half a grin. “Now...just because you can’t have alcohol doesn’t mean you can’t indulge,” he said, voice a little lower than usual. “I bet the dessert menu here is delectable.” 

 

“Ooh, don’t tempt me,” Mycroft moaned, closing his eyes for a brief moment. “I haven’t even had dinner, and already I’m craving chocolates.” 

 

Greg chuckled and flipped open his menu. “No reason you can’t have both. You are pregnant, after all.” He glanced up at his mate for a moment and then turned back to the menu, which he realised belatedly was in French. He saw a few words he could work out, but it was largely unintelligible - to him, at least. “I’m sure you’ve already-“ 

 

“I did recall, yes, that French is not among your particular skill set,” Mycroft cut him off, reaching across the table delicately to take his menu away. “No matter. The menu is merely a formality; I took the liberty of ordering for you.” 

 

Greg laughed again, crossing his arms briefly before unfolding them again and reaching over to take Mycroft’s hand in his own, thumbing over the Omega’s knuckles softly. “I’m supposed to be the Alpha in this relationship. The one taking charge...but you seem like you’re always taking care of me.” 

 

“You _do_ take care of me,” Mycroft replied, his brow furrowing for a moment. “You’ve given me your baby, you provide for me...” He trailed off, eyes slightly narrowed in concern, but Greg was eager to pick up the conversation. 

 

“I meant it in a good way, Myc,” he responded, eyes bright, words honest. “I think we take care of each other.” 

 

Mycroft’s cheeks flushed ever so slightly and he looked down at their joined hands, the corners of his mouth turning up in a smile. “That we do,” he said. “That we do.” 

 

* * *

 

 

Their dinner passed slowly, as Greg had hoped it would. They were able to catch up in a way they hadn’t had the opportunity to, what with the Albanian situation keeping Mycroft busy every day for the better part of a fortnight. 

 

With every sip of wine (or, in Mycroft’s case, sparkling grape juice), the atmosphere seemed to warm, pleasant happiness bubbling and warming them both from the inside out. Seeing the laugh lines deepen around Mycroft’s eyes, watching as the British government relaxed in the chair opposite him, content and at ease, set Greg’s heart alight. When finally the last scrapes of chocolate mousse disappeared from Mycroft’s plate, and the last sip of wine drained from Greg’s glass, they paid the bill and left together, hand in hand. 

 

Mycroft was pliant and a little sleepy on the way home, leaning against Greg’s shoulder and rubbing his small but growing belly. Greg reached around Mycroft’s waist and laid his own hand on the Omega’s side, his fingers just barely brushing the curve of Mycroft’s belly through layers of clothes. 

 

The cab made its way quickly through the lit streets of London, pulling up in front of their flat just as Greg roused Mycroft out of a shallow slumber. He paid the fare and helped his mate out of the cab, a smile spreading across his face as Mycroft’s hand went protectively to his belly as he straightened up. Mycroft caught the expression and returned it, rubbing side to side for a moment before taking Greg’s hand and walking with him to the front step. 

 

Greg was putting the key in the lock when Mycroft’s voice rumbled silkily in his ear. “I think tonight would be a good night to put our mutual good moods to use,” he murmured, and a shiver ran down Greg’s spine. 

 

“That just a fancy way of asking for a leg over?” he replied, but couldn’t disguise the slight tremor to his voice, betraying the sudden arousal he’d found himself in possession of. 

 

“It’s a fancy way of asking for you to _take me,_ ” Mycroft replied, voice steady. Greg’s fingers fumbled on the key as he turned it over, and he pushed the door open, gratefully stepping inside, with Mycroft close behind. 

 

Close enough, in fact, that it was no surprise to feel the Omega pressing up against Greg from behind as he attempted to shuck off his jacket and toe off his shoes. The burgeoning belly disguised some of the evidence of Mycroft’s arousal, but the pressure was there for certain, and an answering throb echoed in Greg’s own trousers. He reached back with one warm hand and laid his palm over Mycroft’s back, holding him in place, pushing back ever so slightly. “Christ,” he said at length, and released his hold so he could twist around and press a searing kiss to Mycroft’s mouth. 

 

Mycroft moaned quietly in response, hand snaking up and pushing through Greg’s short peppered hair, pulling him down. Greg’s eyes were shut tight as he reached down to pull Mycroft against him, slotting one knee between his thighs and pressing as close as he could, both their bodies battling against one another for more contact. “Get into the bedroom,” Greg managed, and hurriedly finished toeing off his shoes before following the Omega. 

 

Clothes were lying in small puddles on the bedroom floor when Greg trotted in, already undoing the buttons on his own shirt. Mycroft had paused in his state of undress and was standing next to their mattress in just his pants, suspenders and socks, both hands on his belly. Greg admired his silhouette for a short second before tossing his own shirt away and walking up behind the Omega, laying his hands underneath Mycroft’s against the warm skin of his bulge. “Okay?” he asked, lips brushing the shell of Mycroft’s ear. Mycroft nodded slowly, and shifted his hands, and Greg could nearly hear the gears turning. 

 

“It’s moving,” he murmured, and Greg inhaled sharply. “I can feel it, very low, but not on the outside. I can feel it moving.” He swallowed, and turned to look at Greg out of the corner of his eye. “I can feel our baby _moving._ ” 

 

“Oh, my god,” was all Greg could manage before he was whirling Mycroft around, taking his lips again and drawing an uncharacteristic whimper from Mycroft’s mouth. Soon he had the Omega lying down on the bed, both men breathing heavily as a now-nude Greg climbed onto the mattress and straddled Mycroft, framing his belly with his own strong thighs. “Christ, you’re beautiful like this,” he sighed, and laid both of his hands on Mycroft’s stomach, rubbing over the dome. 

 

“You made me like this,” Mycroft said in return, and laid his hands over Greg’s, moving them around the skin - up, brushing his pectorals, down, fingers nudging the join of belly to hip, before moving up again, high enough to thumb over Mycroft’s nipples. Mycroft made a small noise of electrified surprise and Greg repeated the motion, pleased to feel the Omega push up into his hands. “They’re growing, too,” Mycroft breathed, and pressed against Greg’s hands, encouraging him to massage the budding flesh. 

 

Greg choked on a breath and couldn’t help but rut against Mycroft for a few seconds, taking the edge off of his thick arousal and reveling in the small thrusts of Mycroft’s body back against his own. When the Omega started to whine underneath him, Greg wrenched his mind back into motion and slid across the bed, reaching for the bottle of lubricant stowed in their bedside table. 

 

Mycroft turned to lay on his side, drawing one leg up to expose himself to his Alpha, thigh resting on the side of his belly lightly as Greg’s index finger began to work him open. Slow bites to the tender flesh of his bottom, massaging the globe of Mycroft’s rear with his warm hand, Mycroft was gasping and pushing back on Greg within minutes, body opening easily around one finger, asking for two. 

 

Greg took his time working Mycroft open, drawing gasps and needy noises from the Omega’s throat each time he pressed against the small button of his prostate. Mycroft jerked forward weakly and sobbed muffled breaths of arousal into his pillow when Greg finally slid a third finger in, his prick throbbing against the bottom of his belly, aching for release. Greg made a noise of agreement and spent only a few more moments stretching Mycroft around his digits. 

 

Greg rolled Mycroft carefully onto his back, breathing out as he took in Mycroft’s dilated pupils, his flushed cheeks. He pushed one thigh up and back, and Mycroft reached down to hold it in place, cradling the swell of his belly with the other hand. “Please,” he sighed, and Greg nodded, lifting Mycroft’s hips and pressing himself up and against the Omega’s entrance, open and ready for him. 

 

One long, swift thrust had Greg seated deeply inside, connected at the core to his mate and breathing heavily. “Myc...” 

 

“Yes, Greg,” Mycroft replied, his voice gone slightly reedy. He rocked down onto Greg’s length, a breath catching in his throat in the split second it took Greg to respond in kind. He picked up a slow pace, taking his time pushing in and pulling back out, filling Mycroft as much he could, being carefully of the swell where their baby grew. 

 

Mycroft’s hair grew damp and stuck to his forehead, but the Omega was too gone to care. He clung to Greg desperately, feeling tiny kicks and thumps from inside as if in answer to Greg’s thrusts. Soon he was at the edge, each push and retreat sawing against his prostate in agonizing pleasure. “Please,” he begged, and nearly sobbed his relief when Greg obliged, ramping up his thrusts and pounding unapologetically into Mycroft’s body. He yelped and cried out as finally he came, his cock pulsing and spilling over his belly, and at the sight and the feeling of Mycroft’s body clenching around his own, Greg followed into his own orgasm. 

 

One of the first sensations Greg became aware of was that of Mycroft’s gentle hand on his own, dragging his palm to lie on the swell of his belly. Greg smiled and buried his face against Mycroft’s shoulder, inhaling his scent as he pressed his hand firmer against Mycroft’s stomach. “Getting big in there,” he murmured, and felt Mycroft’s soft chuckle under his cheek. 

 

“Getting big out here, too,” Mycroft replied, and Greg laughed and pressed a kiss to his pectoral muscle. 

 

“You’re beautiful,” he said, and tilted his head up as he felt Mycroft drop a soft kiss to his hairline. “Really. And you’re only getting more gorgeous as time goes on.” Mycroft just smiled and carded his fingers through Greg’s hair slowly, until they both drifted off to sleep. 

 

* * *

 

 

The weeks passed more slowly after that, with Mycroft steadily handing off more and more of his workload to his staff as his own personal workload increased in weight and size. His doctors assured him that everything was fine, even if he was larger than usual for a male Omega at his stage in gestation. At seven months, he looked and felt like he was ready to give birth. 

 

The one indicator that he wasn’t yet due was his breasts - they were still small, and just now starting to fill with milk. He already had several paternity brassieres in his bureau, and was glad for their presence when he awoke one morning to find his breasts tender and more swollen than usual. He pinched one nipple slightly, and cocked one eyebrow as he saw a bead of milk form on the tip. “Hmm,” he muttered, and wiped away the liquid before heaving himself to his feet and waddling across the room to find a bra. 

 

“Hmm what?” came a bleary voice from the other side of the mattress. Greg blinked a few times as his vision cleared, and smiled toothily as he took in the sight of Mycroft - gravid and nude in front of the mirror. 

 

“My milk’s come in,” came the reply, and Greg felt an unexpected jolt of arousal pool in his groin as Mycroft turned slowly, breasts bouncing as their fullness was put on exhibition. 

 

“Oh, wow,” Greg breathed, and pushed himself to sit up, nonchalantly dragging the blankets more fully across his lap. “They’re...christ, they’re a lot bigger this morning than they were last night. Does it hurt?” he asked, leaning forward as though the few inches would allow him to see the changes more apparently. 

 

“It aches,” Mycroft said after a moment, lifting one hand to massage his left breast. “I doubt they’re full, but it’s a strange sort of pressure. Perhaps you could feel a difference?” he asked, taking a few steps across the room until he was in front of his mate. 

 

Greg swallowed and inhaled before reaching up to cup one breast, trying to mask his reaction to the sudden throb of heat in his lap. He _could_ feel a difference, definitely - it was harder, and fuller, almost similar to the way the mass of the baby had filled out Mycroft’s belly...

 

Greg tried to palm his growing erection without drawing attention to it, but Mycroft noticed the small repetitive motions and his mouth took on a wicked curve. “Is this arousing you?” he asked, voice suddenly low and rough as he straightened up, leaned back - pushed his belly towards Greg’s face. 

 

“N-no,” Greg tried, but the words caught in his throat as Mycroft gave a scoff. 

 

“Yes it is. Your eyes have dilated, you’re tenting the sheet - you’re aroused by my lactation,” Mycroft said, a gleam lighting in his eye. “I think you want to suckle from me. Don’t you, Greg?” 

 

Greg shook his head emphatically, but it was obvious that Mycroft saw through the ruse. “Don’t _lie_ to me,” he commanded, and watched as Greg’s eyes dilated even further. Interesting. 

 

Greg could see the change, and he knew that Mycroft knew. Another pulse in his cock had his attention waning, and he could only hope... “Please,” he whispered, hoping Mycroft would understand. 

 

“Don’t _beg,_ you sniveling excuse for a mate,” Mycroft snapped, and stepped back, crossing his arms under his chest, over the top of his full belly. “You think I can’t tell how much you want to suck on my breasts, like a pup? Do you think I’m _blind?”_

 

“N-no, Mycroft, you’re not...I didn’t mean...” Greg stammered. 

 

“Shut up.” Mycroft cut him off. “I know exactly what you meant. I know exactly what you want to do. I know how you’re picturing me, all swollen with _your_ baby, helpless for my _Alpha...”_ he sneered. “You think I’ll just lay back and grow for you? Let you suckle from me, while I lay and whine and moan for you? Do you think I am a _toy_ for you, Gregory?” 

 

Oh, Greg was so hard it hurt. His cheeks were flushed and it was all he could do to keep his eyes locked with Mycroft’s, as the man’s quicksilver tongue threw cutting insults at him, almost too fast to process. His hand went to his groin, and pressed down, only to feel Mycroft’s fingers twist around it, fast as lightning. 

 

“You don’t get to _touch yourself._ You don’t deserve it. You’re pathetic. Imagining me like a fucktoy -“ and oh, how Mycroft’s tongue danced over the filthy word, spun it in silk, christ - “all spread out for you...as though I’d let you demean me like that. You think just because you’re my Alpha, you get to have me for your own? Suckle from me? You don’t _deserve_ to drink this milk.” Mycroft’s hands rose to his breasts and he squeezed them, sent dribbles down over the full, aching flesh, and Greg’s breath caught in his throat. 

 

“If - and that’s _if,_ Gregory - _if_ I want you to drink from my breasts, it will be on _my_ terms, and not because you can’t control your damnable urges. You _filthy_ Alpha.” 

 

Greg shuddered and drew in a shallow breath, needing to touch himself, desperate to come. He gave Mycroft a pleading look, and caught the just-barely-there nod that Mycroft gave in return. “I’m not going to touch you, you dirty, disgusting excuse for a man. But I’ll stand here and watch you as you touch yourself...know that I’ll be judging you for how fast you come, because I _know_ what you’ll be thinking about.” He stepped back, then leaned forward and yanked the sheets away from Greg as though it was an afterthought. 

 

Greg was left reeling, sitting on the mattress, erection jutting shamelessly into the air and dribbling precome down onto the mattress. His hand went to his cock as though it were magnitised, and after long minutes of Egyptian cotton sheets brushing over his hardening length, the feeling of his hand was a wave of relief over aching flesh. He barely had the capacity of mind to stay upright as he jerked himself rapidly, eyes drifting closed and small noises of desperation escaping his lips as his hand worked up and down. 

 

Mycroft, swollen and heavy with their baby - full, dripping breasts, aching to be nursed from - gravid, fecund, ripe - oh, oh, _oh -_

 

 Greg cried out as his orgasm took him, crashing down from all edges as he spilled over his thighs, the floor, the discarded sheets. He worked himself desperately through the waves of pleasure, riding the agonizing curve of it until it was all he could do to keep from sliding off the bed and onto the floor. “Jeeesus, Mycroft,” he gasped, collapsing back onto the bed, spent and exhausted. 

 

“I don’t truly think you’re disgusting, for the record,” Mycroft said, humor softening his words as he handed Greg a dampened flannel. “And additionally, you are welcome to suckle from my breasts. I’ve no other use for their product...not yet, anyway.” He gave a smile to the man lying wrecked on the mattress, who returned the expression weakly as he took the cloth from his mate. 

 

“Think I’ll pass, for today, I’m worried it might be a bit like Pavlov’s dog if I start now,” he muttered under his breath, and grinned as Mycroft’s amused chuckle echoed from down the hallway. 

 

* * *

 

 

Mycroft’s offer - his oh-so-candid “you are welcome to suckle from my breasts,” tossed off like it was an afterthought - lingered with Greg for days. It was hard to forget, honestly, the way they seemed to swell right before his eyes, gradually filling up as Mycroft’s body prepared to nourish their baby. Twin mounds, full and heavy, framing the sides of Mycroft’s belly, making him look even more ripe and ready than before. 

 

And of course, Mycroft knew. How couldn’t he? Try as Greg did not to stare, it was impossible to ignore the way Mycroft looked, the way his gait changed - smoothed out, flowed - to keep his overfull breasts from jiggling. Even the man himself couldn’t keep his hands away, and it seemed like he was constantly massaging one or both breasts as if to ease the pain and pressure of their growth. 

 

Something had to give. 

 

And finally, something did - but not in the way Greg had originally expected. 

 

“Gregory,” came the call from the kitchen. Greg padded out from where he’d been folding laundry in the bedroom, to find Mycroft in the middle of a massive Tesco’s delivery. 

 

“Those weren’t due for another few days,” Greg remarked, stepping up to the table and riffling through the bags. “We don’t have enough space in the cupboards for all of these.” Mycroft was strangely silent, and when Greg looked up he saw the look on Mycroft’s face - smug. “Did you put them on rush? Are we having guests?” 

 

“No, I just put in another order. I’ve been feeling...particularly hungry, as of late, and wondered if you might not want to make _us_ a nice meal.” He laid his hand on his belly, rubbing the curve enticingly, and after a few moments, Greg’s brain caught up. 

 

“You want me to feed you?” he asked, brow slightly furrowed as he questioned for clarity. “Make dinner, and feed you?” 

 

“Precisely,” Mycroft agreed with a decisive nod. “You’ll find there’s plenty in this delivery for a chicken Alfredo pasta - my favourite, as you well know. And, of course, dessert.” He patted an insulated container next to him, which no doubt housed the Omega’s favourite flavour of ice cream. “I’m feeling a bit peckish now, actually, so if you wouldn’t mind...?” he gestured openly to the spread on the table, and Greg pushed a hand through his hair and stepped up to the stovetop. 

 

Half an hour and a few minor burns later, an absolutely heaping dish of chicken Alfredo sat on the table - a bowl large enough to serve four, easily, perhaps even with leftovers. Mycroft looked terrifically pleased when Greg seated himself and pulled the bowl towards them, holding his fork almost questioningly. “Go on, then,” he insisted, waving a hand at the dish before leaning forward and opening his mouth obligingly, a smile curving his opened lips. 

 

Greg nodded. “Right.” He twirled the fork around in the pasta, picking up a sizable bite of the creamy noodles and cupping his free hand beneath the fork as it travelled the short distance between the bowl and Mycroft’s mouth. The Omega hummed, the noise almost sinfully pleasureful, and a shudder ran down Greg’s spine. Mycroft chewed leisurely and swallowed, nodding at Greg as the DI readied another forkful. 

 

After a short time of being fed in silence, Mycroft reached across for a drink of water, clearing his throat and rubbing his belly idly as he eyed up the rest of the dish. Perhaps a fifth of the pasta was gone, but he intended for much more to be consumed before he ended their little dinner party. He set down his glass and wiped his mouth on a napkin before smiling at his mate, wordlessly asking for more. 

 

Greg obligingly fed Mycroft forkful after forkful of noodles and chicken, watching as an almost obscene amount of food was consumed. As big as Mycroft was, Greg had somehow doubted that his stomach could even fit as much food as it could before, but it seemed he was wrong - perhaps Mycroft had a hollow leg. The Omega didn’t seem to be slowing, either; he was content to just keep eating. 

 

So Greg kept feeding him. 

 

A quarter of the bowl gone, then a third, then half. Mycroft took a break and rubbed his stomach with both hands, letting his eyes drift closed as he held his belly. “That’s quite a dinner you’ve made,” he remarked softly, burping as quietly as he could manage to relieve some of the pressure of the meal he was consuming. 

 

“You don’t _have_ to eat all of it, you know,” Greg replied, but Mycroft stifled another quiet burp and shook his head. 

 

“I want to,” he responded, and opened his mouth for another bite. 

 

Barely a quarter of the original bowl of noodles were left when Mycroft’s pace started to slow dramatically. His stomach had expanded almost as far as it could, and if he hadn’t already been pregnant, he was sure that he would have looked like it, with as much as he’d eaten. As it was, the mass of his stomach was pushing out an already bulging middle, and his shirt was nearly uncomfortably tight and hot in his lap. 

 

He moaned quietly as he rubbed his middle, the skin there tight and aching. He desperately wanted to finish his dinner, and his dessert, but he wasn’t sure he could - not anymore. Perhaps it had been too lofty a goal...

 

Mycroft looked up, surprised, as Greg poised another forkful of noodles in front of his mouth. “Ready?” the Alpha asked, a gleam in his eye that Mycroft hadn’t seen before. The Omega opened his mouth, allowing Greg to slide the laden fork inside, and chewing and swallowing quietly. He let out a small grunt of discomfort as he felt the mouthful travel down into his already-packed stomach, but when Greg held out another forkful, he didn’t refuse. 

 

He didn’t refuse, even, when the last forkful - small noodles, and a bite of chicken - was put in front of his mouth, even though his stomach felt ready to explode with the mass of his dinner. He chewed and swallowed, obeying his Alpha’s commands, and tried to breathe deeply through the spasm that wracked his middle - but his stomach was encroaching on the space his lungs had previously been using, and to inhale deeply set his stretched skin aching with a fierceness. 

 

But his Alpha wasn’t done yet - there was still dessert to be had. “You’ve been such a good Omega,” Mycroft heard Greg say, and then heard the distinctive crack of an ice cream lid. “It’s time for a treat. Your favourite ice cream, all for you.” 

 

The kitchen chair creaked slightly as Greg sat down across from Mycroft, and the half-gallon tub of ice cream made a quiet thump as it was set on the table. “Look at you, so swollen and big. Do you think you can eat your dessert?” 

 

Mycroft held his belly weakly, massaging the tight skin, wondering if indeed he could manage the ice cream. It might soothe the ache, cool the heat that the poor, stretched organ was sending out...he nodded, and Greg picked up a creamy spoonful, sliding it through the Omega’s flushed, pinked lips. 

 

Mycroft whined after each bite, the cream melting as it trickled down his throat and into his overfull, packed stomach. “So.” He swallowed. “So full, Greg. I.” 

 

“Ssh, pet, you’re doing so well. You need to eat, help our baby grow big and strong. You can do it, can’t you?” Greg soothed, running a hand across Mycroft’s swollen, distended belly. “Here, another bite. That’s my good Omega,” he crooned, spooning more ice cream into Mycroft’s mouth and rubbing his aching middle. 

 

“Going to. Ohhh, pop,” Mycroft breathed, holding his poor, stretched belly in both hands, desperate to finish, to lie back and digest, let the pressure release and give his aching stomach a break. He felt full to burst, but when the cool spoon touched his lips, it was all he could do to open his mouth and let Greg feed him another spoonful. 

 

His belly was trying to reject his meal, cramping violently when Greg whispered “last spoonful, Myc.” Mycroft opened his mouth and took in the last of the sweat ice cream, sighing as the liquid ran down his throat and into his overfull stomach. “Done,” Mycroft breathed, holding his belly in both hands, rubbing the aching flesh in a desperate attempt to relieve pressure. 

 

“Yes, you’re done,” Greg agreed, undoing the too-tight buttons of Mycroft’s shirt and spreading the fabric back over his belly. “Look at you, so full for our baby. You’re beautiful,” he murmured, rubbing his hands over Mycroft’s stomach, feeling the heat of it, the solid mass under his hands. “You did good, Mycroft. You ate all of it - you’re going to make our baby so big and strong. Well done, well done.” He leaned forward over Mycroft’s belly and pressed a kiss to the corner of the Omega’s mouth, tongue darting out to clean a spot of ice cream that had been forgotten at the crease of his lips. 

 

Despite his discomfort, Mycroft smiled wanly and leaned back, cupping his belly and letting his body relax as best it could. His Alpha was taking care of him, wasn’t he? Making sure that Mycroft was healthy, and that their baby would grow big and small. That was good - that was very, very good. 

 

Distantly, Mycroft became aware that Greg was undoing his shirt at the top, pushing it back and away from his breasts. He felt his brassiere being undone as well, and suddenly Greg’s mouth, warm and wet, was on his nipple, suckling gently. Mycroft’s hand drifted up to cup the back of Greg’s head, pulling him close as he would do with their pup, helping him nurse. “Good,” Mycroft murmured, and fell asleep to the feeling of being so wonderfully loved, and loving in return. 

 

* * *

 

 

Having finally gotten the chance to nurse from Mycroft’s swollen breasts made Greg nearly insatiable. The milk had been thin but warm, and he found that the taste echoed on his tongue for days after. Mycroft had purchased a pump shortly after his milk came in, but to Greg’s great pleasure, it seemed that he found it a hassle - which meant Greg had every opportunity to drink down the sweet, thin milk. 

 

However, he was sad when, after a long day at the office - meetings, a press conference, and processing two very stubborn criminals - he arrived home and saw the pump drying in the sink. Obviously. It would have ached horribly for Mycroft to go a whole day without pumping - it was wrong of Greg to wish that he’d waited. 

 

But then he heard the noises from the bedroom. It was obviously Mycroft, but he sounded pained. Greg’s heart started to thud nervously in his chest as he strode across the kitchen into the bedroom, flinging open the door. 

 

Mycroft was lying on his back on the bed, bare from the waist up with his belly protruding into the air. One heavy breast was in each hand, being massaged with shaky fingers from the obviously agonized Omega. “Greg,” came the pained breathy word, and Greg felt a pang of sympathy in his chest - and another pang, significantly lower. 

 

“Oh, Mycroft. You shouldn’t have waited so long,” Greg crooned, toeing off his shoes and climbing onto the mattress. “You could have hurt yourself.” He paused in crawling across the bed, stroking one hand down the curve of Mycroft’s belly as his mouth curled in an uncertain expression. “Do you want me to...” 

 

“Yes, of course,” Mycroft hissed, a frown of displeasure crossing his face as his hand released his breast, the torpid flesh hardly sagging. 

 

Greg’s mouth started to water in anticipation, and he eagerly leant over his mate, finding the nipples engorged and hardened as his lips wrapped around them. Milk began to spill into his mouth, and the taste of it had blood pumping to Greg’s groin instantly. 

 

Tangy, warm, and sweet - full of lactose and nutrients meant to support a baby. Greg could feel the tension gradually leaving Mycroft’s body as he drank, and one hand found its way to rub his mate’s belly soothingly. He felt Mycroft’s hand begin to lazily stroke his hair, and he knew that Mycroft was fighting the Omega instinct and urge to cup his head, pull him close and help him to latch on to his milk-filled breasts. 

 

After several long minutes, Greg could feel the pressure behind each stream of milk begin to decrease, and he knew that he had nearly emptied the now-pillowy mound. He took a few more sucks of milk and then let the nipple fall from his mouth, deep red and soft, and he pressed a lingering kiss to it, almost in apology. “Other one,” Mycroft murmured sleepily, and Greg slid off the side of the bed to crawl in on the opposite side. 

 

This breast seemed even more painfully full than the last, and he massaged it very gently with his fingers, hoping to encourage the tight, hot flesh to let down the milk that had been gathering there for hours and hours. Mycroft made a quiet noise of relief as his milk began to dribble out of the nipple, and Greg sank down to take the hard button between his lips. 

 

Soft hands on Mycroft’s belly and upper arm apologised for making him wait so long, soothed the ache that had radiated out from his chest the longer he waited in pain. The Omega was sleepy and compliant as Greg emptied his breasts, and when Greg drank the last of Mycroft’s milk, the Omega pulled his Alpha close and held him tight. Greg’s arms snaked around his mate’s body and held him back, softly kissing freckled shoulders and cheeks until the Omega drifted off to sleep. 

 

* * *

 

 

Mycroft had read about the phenomenon of the hormone spike, of course, but he thought that perhaps he had managed to escape it as his gestation crested past seven months and into eight. 

 

It appeared, however, that he had no such luck. 

 

Greg was out on some loathsome burglary case, and Mycroft was stuck at home, feeling the insurmountable urge to hump something until he came. And then to continue to hump said thing until he came again, and repeat the process until he was sated. 

 

Gregory’s arrival home heralded no change in Mycroft’s situation; the Alpha seemed either immune to the pheromone spike or was simply ignoring it. The simple presence of his Alpha sent Mycroft’s pheromones spinning wildly, and he grumpily excused himself from the room, trailing a blanket behind himself in a poor attempt to hide the wet spot that was growing down the back of his trousers. 

 

Greg looked up from his laptop as Mycroft left the room, and when he heard their bedroom door close, he allowed himself the briefest of moments to palm himself through his denims. Mycroft smelled positively _toxic._ It was all Greg could do to keep himself occupied oand off his Omega, who seemed ignorant or disinterested in the change of his smell. Greg let out a small keening wheeze and tried to ignore his thickening cock, which throbbed intently anytime he let his thoughts drift. 

 

A short period of time passed, and the pheromone concentration had apparently levelled out, if the gradual reduction of blood flow to Greg’s prick was any indication. Mycroft had not made a reappearance, and Greg wondered idly if his mate was simply tired and had disappeared to their bedroom for a nap. However, Greg’s ears registered a faint, rhythmic series of noises coming from down the hallway, but it was only the cessation of the noise that grabbed his attention. What was Mycroft doing? 

 

Greg set his laptop aside and pushed himself up, padding down the hallway so as not to startle his mate. The bedroom door was ever so slightly ajar, and Greg clapped a hand to his mouth when a thick wave of pheromones washed out of the gap between the door and frame. He could hear Mycroft’s heavy breathing inside, and another scent soon entered the mix - one that was, unmistakably, the smell of Mycroft’s release. 

 

Greg burst through the door and Mycroft’s eyes flew open, the gravid Omega lying propped up on the bed with one hand around his prick. “Finally caught on, did you?” he intoned, voice husky and low with exertion. Greg shuddered at the sound, and Mycroft’s eyes flashed as he took in the Alpha’s reaction to the derision dripping from his voice. 

 

“Sorry,” Greg gasped, and fumbled at his belt for a moment before a gesture from Mycroft stopped him. 

 

“Don’t you dare touch yourself,” Mycroft growled, releasing his prick and heaving himself up to sit, his belly resting in his lap and obscuring his cock from view. “You _ignored_ me. You sat in that room, with your Omega reeking of sex, and let me walk away and you didn’t even have the common sense to _follow me,”_ he sneered. 

 

Greg swallowed and made to speak, but Mycroft ploughed on. “I left the door open so you could _hear_ me pleasuring myself, and you let me work myself to completion and start again until you _finally_ decided to grace me with your presence. How _dare_ you. What kind of an Alpha are you?” 

 

“I’m sorry,” Greg breathed, chest and neck flushed red with colour creeping into his cheeks. “I didn’t - you didn’t say anything, I didn’t know you wanted-“ 

 

“You didn’t know I wanted sex?” Mycroft replied incredulously, one brow rising on a sweat-dampened forehead. “Gregory. I smelt of a heat. I excused myself to our bedroom with a blanket wrapped around my person to hide the _wet spot_ on my _trousers_. What more signal did you want?” He scoffed at the Alpha who was standing, vaguely dumbstruck, beside the bed, still fully-clothed. 

 

Greg tried to speak again, but Mycroft cut him off once more, dealing the final blow. “I don’t know how you can even begin to think you’re worthy to be my Alpha.” 

 

A high, reedy whine escaped Greg’s lips and his hands quivered at his sides. “Mycroft...” 

 

“Get on the bed. I’m going to put you in your place,” Mycroft commanded, and Greg obeyed, quickly stripping himself of his clothes and climbing into their bed. He was almost painfully erect, his cock jutting into the air, tip purpled and leaking. He didn’t dare touch himself, even though it seemed like each passing second made the ache between his legs grow stronger. 

 

Mycroft laid next to Greg, belly full and heavy, the scent of a micro-heat absolutely radiating out from his body. Greg ached to reach out and touch him, but the glare still flickering in his mate’s eyes kept his hands firmly planted at his sides. Finally, with a grunt and no small amount of effort, Mycroft was up on his knees, looming over Greg’s body. “Knees spread, feet flat on the mattress,” he said darkly. 

 

Greg kept his hands knotted in the sheets as Mycroft straddled his hips, the curve of his belly pressing against Greg’s own middle and chest as the Omega maneuvered himself into position. He rocked back slightly, and Greg’s breath caught in his throat as the motion pressed his cock firmly against the curve of Mycroft’s arse. He could feel the Omega’s slickness as he rubbed himself up and down, and the cloud of scent surrounding them thickened. 

 

“Myc,” the Alpha finally begged on a broken breath, and Mycroft reached behind himself to grip his cock firmly in hand. Greg nearly came then, already feeling desperate and overstimulated, but he bit his lip and tried to keep his breathing even as Mycroft slowly, slowly edged the head of his cock towards his hole, already stretched and ready - 

 

“From when you _ignored_ me,” Mycroft murmured, a gasp escaping his lips as he started to lower himself down onto Greg’s cock. “Worthless Alpha.” He cut off the responding whine of halfhearted protest by letting the muscles of his thighs go lax, lowering himself the rest of the way with a moan of pleasure. “You’re going to make it up to me, aren’t you?” he asked, and Greg nodded quickly. “Oh, yes,” Mycroft continued, “You will. You just lay there and let me _use you._ ” 

 

Greg groaned and arched his back as Mycroft started up an unforgiving rhythm, working his body up and down on his prick faster than he’d imagined the Omega could, given the circumstances. The pace was relentless, and Greg had to close his eyes and look away from the bouncing belly, the rotund, slapping breasts as Mycroft worked himself close to a frenzy, riding Greg hard and fast. 

 

The pheromones were so thick that Greg was certain the neighbors - the whole street, perhaps - could smell them, and his knot started to throb as it swelled in response. Mycroft’s crests and dips shortened, then, just teasing the top of his knot each time he lowered himself. Greg tried bucking upwards, to push himself inside, but Mycroft growled and glowered and Greg restrained himself, allowing his Omega to use him, abuse him the way he needed. 

 

Too soon, Mycroft felt himself draw up, his whole body tensing in preparation to orgasm. He picked up the pace as well as he could, one hand bracing his heavy belly as he started to lose control, his hips rocking forward in a last attempt to bring himself pleasure. Finally, with a grunt and a cry, he pushed himself down hard on Greg’s prick, the knot slipping inside and swelling rapidly as the Omega pulsed and contracted around him. 

 

Greg managed only half a second longer before he followed Mycroft’s lead, releasing into Mycroft’s body with a yelp. His hand flew up and cupped Mycroft’s belly, feeling its weight and solidity on his hand, feeling their baby drum against his palm from within. He twisted his hips and pushed upwards once, twice, feeling the knot grow incrementally thicker inside, drawing out his pleasure for as long as he could. 

 

Above him, Mycroft panted heavily, his belly and chest heaving with every breath he drew. Inside him, the baby turned and kicked, responding to Mycroft’s elevated blood pressure and the rapid movements as his body had crashed together with Greg’s. Peeling one eye open, Mycroft could see Greg’s blissed-out expression, and he knew he must look similar. A small laugh bubbled up from his throat as he attempted to push the thin hairs back from his sweaty forehead, and Greg looked up at the sound, a wide grin on his face. “Worthless Alpha, eh?” the DI murmured, and Mycroft chuckled. “You know just what to say to get me on my knees for you - er, on my back.” 

 

“It’s the only way I’d ever get a leg over in this house, thick as you are,” Mycroft drawled in reply, and defended himself against his Alpha’s playful swat of retaliation. 

 

* * *

 

 

“Please, Greg?” Mycroft whimpered. “One last time, please, this is as big as I’ll ever get, please-“ 

 

“Christ, Myc.” Greg dragged a hand over his face, trying to decide if this was feasible or not. “You don’t think it’ll hurt you or the baby?” 

 

“It will hurt me some, but that’s the point,” Mycroft insisted, putting on his best pleading face and looking up at his mate innocently. 

 

Greg was silent for a few moments, thoughtful as he slouched back against the sofa cushions. “Fine,” he said at length, cracking one eyelid open to peer at Mycroft. He gave a small smile in response to the brilliant one splitting Mycroft’s face, and leaned over to kiss his mate’s mouth, and then his belly. “I’ll go make something to eat, then, shall I?” 

 

Mycroft nodded, and Greg slid off the sofa, padding out of the sitting room and into the kitchen. He rubbed his belly distractedly, mind and body thrumming as he imagined what was to come. 

 

He’d woken earlier that morning with the baby low in his pelvis, dropped fully and ready for birth. It was hardly a surprise when he felt a contraction shortly thereafter, and a few more since that first spasm had confirmed it - he was in labour. It took Mycroft awhile to figure out what the niggling thought in the back of his mind was trying to point to. When he finally stumbled across it, it was as though he’d had an epiphany of the most fantastic proportions - one he’d just now managed to convince his mate into agreeing on. 

 

Unless they had another baby, this was the largest Mycroft would ever be - with one exception. Which was why Greg was now out in the kitchen, cooking and preparing a massive meal for Mycroft to eat - to stuff himself completely, utterly full one last time, to get as big as he possibly could be before the baby came. 

 

Mycroft’s stomach grumbled in anticipation. 

 

* * *

 

 

The spread was impressive, to say the very least. Greg had worked quickly, knowing that eating a meal large enough to stuff his mate’s stomach would take quite some time - and though the labour would last for hours, they had a very short window of time to take advantage of. Bowls of boiled pasta and sauce sat on the table, along with toasted bread, fresh-grated cheese, and plenty of water. 

 

Greg called Mycroft into the kitchen and, after a moment, went to fetch his gravid mate, who was struggling to rise from the sofa of his own volition. The journey to the kitchen seemed more difficult than usual - with the baby so low in his pelvis, head grinding against his dilating cervix, Mycroft’s walk was nearly a stagger. He dropped gratefully into the chair and winced as stretched muscles sparked with pain. Despite his discomfort, however, Mycroft was delighted to see the spread of food waiting to be consumed, and he pulled his prepared plate toward himself, taking a deep breath before beginning to eat. 

 

Mycroft was glad that he wasn’t suffering from nausea, as he’d read that it happened often to labouring Omegas. He silently thanked whatever powers that may have influenced nature’s decision as he swallowed his pasta. 

 

A strong contraction started to build as Mycroft twirled another forkful of noodles, and he quickly put down his fork and laid hands on his belly as his muscles began to tighten. He could feel the ache in his spine deepen, and he was grateful when Greg pushed down on his sacrum, adding light counter-pressure. He breathed deeply through the spasm, eyes closed, rocking ever so slightly side-to-side. Both men let out a sigh as the pain passed, and Mycroft smiled as Greg dropped a kiss to his shoulder before sitting back down. 

 

That contraction had been closer to the last, the gap between the pains slowly lessening as his body prepared for birth. Mycroft resolutely continued to eat, glad to feel his stomach sending signals of fullness to his brain. He made himself a second plate of noodles and sauce, mindful of the wary look Greg gave him. “I’ll be fine,” he reassured his mate, the tines of his fork sounding against the side of the plate as he prepared another forkful. 

 

“I know you will,” Greg replied, though he sounded ever so slightly worried. “Just don’t eat more than you can handle. I don’t want you to hurt yourself.” 

 

“I won’t,” Mycroft replied, and reached out for Greg’s hand as he delicately bit the noodles off of his fork. 

 

He was glad to be holding Greg’s hand when another contraction crept up on him, and this time he could feel a marked difference. His stomach, mostly full, was taking up space in his already tight and full belly, and the pressure of the contraction made the organ ache in a way Mycroft had never felt before. The additional pressure was approaching pain when the spasm dissipated, and Mycroft found himself panting slightly as his muscles eased. “It felt so much stronger,” he breathed. 

 

“It lasted longer than the last one, too,” Greg remarked, scratching the duration of the contraction on a piece of note paper. “Starting to get closer together. Are you sure you want to-“ 

 

“Yes,” Mycroft insisted, releasing Greg’s hand and forking more noodles against the side of the plate. “I want to.” Greg nodded in reluctant agreement and reached over to rub Mycroft’s back as the Omega ate. 

 

Mycroft managed partway through a third plate of pasta before another contraction came down, and this time he moaned in discomfort as the tightening compacted his overfilling stomach. He held his belly in both hands as his muscles gripped and squeezed, both eyes closed against the sensation. “Greg-“ he bit out, and gasped as the contraction finally ended. “Hurry. The last of it, please, I need-“ 

 

“You’re going to hurt yourself,” Greg said, a pleading note entering his voice at last. “I could tell that one hurt more than usual - you’re not meant to be engorged and in labour at the same time.” 

 

“I _want_ to be,” Mycroft replied, his own voice edging toward a whine. “Just please, feed me the rest of it, and then I’ll be done. I promise, I won’t eat any more.” 

 

Greg’s brow furrowed and he fought against his desire to clear the plates from the table, to help his mate to their bed so he could deliver their baby. He pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled a sigh, giving in and pulling the last plate of pasta toward himself. He fed Mycroft the last few bites, and the last hub of bread, and was glad when the stuffed Omega nodded in tired satisfaction and leaned back against the chair. 

 

There was, Greg had to admit, a marked difference in the size of his belly - where the top had looked so empty before, when the baby dropped, it was now rounder once again, showing just how much the pasta and bread had filled his stomach up. Mycroft looked uncomfortable, however, far more so than he usually did after a stuffing, and Greg knew that their last escapade wouldn’t make labour any easier for his mate. “Still feeling okay?” he asked softly, taking Mycroft’s hand in his own and squeezing lightly. 

 

“Very full,” Mycroft replied, fighting the urge to rub the tight skin over his stomach. He felt lethargic and heavy, and he knew it wasn’t all because of the stuffing - he was getting ready to enter transition, active labour approaching rapidly. “Bedroom, please, I need-“ 

 

“I know,” Greg soothed, kissing Mycroft’s shoulder and helping haul the gravid Omega to his feet. Mycroft’s hands did slide around to his stomach then, as if to support the low-hanging roundness and hold his baby in for longer. “You did good, Myc. Time to rest now, before the hard work starts.” Mycroft made a small whimpering noise in response, and let Greg guide him back the hallway to their bedroom. 

 

The bed had already been stripped, lined with a rubber sheet, and covered in a clean set of sheets, and there were piles of laundered towels on both sides. Mycroft sank achily onto the mattress and let Greg pull off his trousers and shirt, leaving him bare but for his underwear as he rolled back against the pillows. He rubbed his belly, feeling his baby so low and pressing out against his skin, ready to be born. “Soon,” he moaned, fingers slipping below the band of his pants and rubbing at his swollen entrance. 

 

Greg nodded and removed his own trousers and shirt, climbing onto the bed and slotting himself behind Mycroft. He pulled the Omega back against himself, massaging his shoulders with both hands and pressing kisses to Mycroft’s temple. “Just breathe, Myc. You’re close, you’re doing well. Just rest. I’ve got you,” he murmured, stroking Mycroft’s arm. 

 

The next contraction came all too soon in Mycroft’s opinion, and he yelped and tensed as his uterus squeezed, pushing his baby down even further towards his cervix. “I’m leaking,” he gasped as milk started to drip from his nipples, wetting his brassiere. “Greg, I’m leaking,” he repeated, sounding horrified. 

 

“I can smell it,” Greg replied, trying to soothe his panicky mate. “It’s okay. This is a messy process, you know, a little leaking milk isn’t going to hurt anything. Do you want your bra off?” he asked, pushing a few hairs back from Mycroft’s forehead. 

 

“Yes,” Mycroft breathed, and let his head loll back against Greg’s chest as his mate unhooked the clasps and slid the damp fabric away from Mycroft’s breasts. They were round and full, and sagged off to either side of his even rounder belly as the cloth supports were removed. “Pants too,” he insisted, trying to wiggle his way out of the garment. Greg chuckled and helped him pull them down and off, and then laced his big hands under Mycroft’s belly, rubbing softly back and forth and cradling his mate. 

 

Not five minutes passed before Mycroft was contracting again, and he didn’t hold back his moans as the muscles of his belly squeezed both his uterus and his full, stuffed stomach. He tried to pant through the pains as they came, but the heavy breathing did very little to alleviate his distress. He faintly heard Greg’s soothing words, but they were often drowned out by his own noises and cries as contraction after contraction washed over him. 

 

Suddenly, it seemed as though the pains had let up, and Mycroft shook his head as he tried to sort his way out of the fog that was clouding his higher mental functions. “What’s happening?” he asked, words round and slow. 

 

“I think you’re transitioning,” came the quiet reply, lips soft against Mycroft’s ear. “You were in pretty constant contractions there for a bit, but it seems like a gap. I think you’re going to be ready to push soon,” Greg continued, fingers brushing over Mycroft’s flattened navel. 

 

“I feel so loose,” Mycroft sighed, eyes drifting closed as his head flopped against Greg’s chest. 

 

“You’re probably almost fully dilated,” Greg reasoned. “All sorts of hormones in your bloodstream. I’m sorry it hurts so much,” he added quietly, sounding painfully apologetic. 

 

“Don’t be absurd, it’s not your fault. Childbirth as a whole is painful, no exceptions,” Mycroft replied, a hint of his usual acerbic manner creeping into the words. “And besides, I’ll forget it ever hurt as soon as we have our baby. That’s what all the doctors and books have said, at any rate.” 

 

Greg grinned. Now that sounded like the Mycroft he knew. “Yeah,” he said in reply. “You’re right. Get ready to have a baby, Myc. It’s gonna happen soon.” 

 

“That’s what all this was about, yes,” Mycroft agreed, shifting slightly and spreading his legs wider. “God, it really is happening, though, isn’t it? After all this time.” Greg laughed and buried his face in the curve of Mycroft’s shoulder, and Mycroft could feel the curve of his lips against his skin. 

 

Mycroft had a quarter of an hours’ respite from his labour pains before the now-familiar feeling of an oncoming contraction started in the base of his spine. It was deeper and harder than before, and he gripped Greg’s hand tight as he prepared to endure it. A pained cry escaped his lips and the muscles of his thighs trembled as his body bore down, starting to push his baby down into the birth canal. 

 

Just seconds later, the indomitable urge to push hit the Omega, and he went along with it, adding his own willpower to the process. Mycroft could feel it as soon as it happened - the slide and feeling of pressure and fullness that signified that his baby’s head had engaged. “Damn,” he cursed, shifting his hips and trying unsuccessfully to alleviate the pained pressure that had settled in his groin. 

 

“What happened?” Greg asked, and Mycroft shook his head. 

 

“Nothing. It engaged,” Mycroft replied, the words almost a growl. “Moving down. Pressure,” he added. 

 

“Oh,” came the simple, if slightly awed, reply. “Erm.” 

 

“Just you stay the way you are,” Mycroft supplied. “This is, as they say, my show.” 

 

“Right.” Greg said. “Good. Keep, uh, pushing. You’re doing well.” 

 

The start of a retort was on the tip of Mycroft’s tongue when another contraction hit, and took the words from him. He took a deep breath and pushed again, a deep groan bubbling up from his throat. He gripped his thigh and bore down as hard as he could, squeezing Greg’s hand too tightly as he worked with his body, working through the pain and discomfort to push their baby out. He gasped a curse when the contraction let up, but words escaped him, and he was glad when Greg simply brushed his hair back against his sweat-beaded forehead. 

 

Too short a break before the next contraction. The baby was moving down, he could feel it as the small body shifted inside him, impossibly large as it stretched through the birth canal. “Can’t,” he gasped, the fingers on his thigh shaking with effort as he pushed. 

 

“Can,” Greg reassured, and laid a helpful hand on the curve of Mycroft’s belly as his mate strained. “You’re doing it, Myc, baby’s almost here. Don’t stop now.” 

 

“Couldn’t - if I wanted,” Mycroft sighed, relaxing back as the spasm let up. Sweat dripped off his nose and landed on his chest, a small droplet on damp, heaving skin. “Close. I can feel it, it’s close,” he murmured, fingers sliding off his thigh and creeping down towards his swollen entrance. Greg nodded against him and kissed the shell of his ear, silent encouragement washing over his mate’s tired body. 

 

At last, at last, at last, the next contraction brought their baby to crowning. Mycroft cried out when the burning set in, and his fingers fumbled at the thin sliver of skin - not his own - that was peeking out of his entrance: his baby’s head, finally making an appearance. He almost shed tears when, after the contraction ended, that bit of skin slid back inside, the only evidence of its appearance the echo of the feeling against Mycroft’s fingers. 

 

Mycroft bore down with all his might on the next contraction, and was relieved when his baby’s head stayed visible even after the spasm ended. He could feel the slickness of his amniotic sac, still intact, over his baby’s head, and he fingered the thin tissue, wondering if rupturing the membrane would speed things along. 

 

His question was answered when the next push added enough pressure to tear the thin membrane, amniotic fluid gushing from around his baby’s head and lubricating the path just enough that the head slid free with minimal effort on Mycroft’s part. He heaved several relieved breaths as the pressure and burning subsided, and he held his baby’s head in the cupped palm of one hand, almost in disbelief. “Greg...” 

 

He heard a sniffle from next to his head, and belatedly felt the tears dripping down onto his shoulder. “I know,” came the wet reply. “God, you’re having our baby, Myc.” 

 

“Almost here,” Mycroft responded quietly, his words soft and reassuring. “Are you ready?” 

 

“Yeah,” Greg said, swallowing and kissing Mycroft’s temple. “Yeah, I am. You?” 

 

“Of course,” Mycroft managed, another contraction stealing the air from his throat. Agonizing pressure and a slick slide and the burning pain was back - “Aah, aah, Greg, it’s-“ 

 

And then there it was, in his hands, his baby, their firstborn. All his aches were gone, his attention stolen by the tiny human slick and so small in his arms. Another pair of hands reached out to support the baby’s form, and drew it back to rest on Mycroft’s chest, warm and wet and drawing its first breaths. A white towel was draped over the little baby’s body, and a blanket was pulled over Mycroft’s knees and stomach, and there were kisses being pressed against his cheek and temple and shoulder. “You did so good,” a soft voice said wetly, and Mycroft could only nod, too enraptured by the tiny baby crying on his chest. “Look at her, she’s so perfect, Mycroft...” 

 

Her. “A daughter?” Mycroft croaked, and Greg laughed a yes in reply. “We have a daughter. Oh, little girl, my little girl,” the Omega breathed, holding his daughter all the tighter against himself. “You’re beautiful,” he murmured, smoothing her damp hair down against her wrinkled forehead. 

 

“So are you,” Greg whispered, his arms wrapping underneath the baby’s body, under Mycroft’s arms, holding and supporting. 

 

“No I’m not. I’m covered in sweat and milk and amniotic fluid, don’t be-“ 

 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Greg said, his tone lovingly mocking. “You’re gorgeous. And so is she. How does it feel, papa? She’s finally here.” 

 

“Papa...” Mycroft’s breath hitched. “I’m a father. We’re parents. She’s _here_...” 

 

Greg chuckled softly and kissed Mycroft’s cheek hard, his hand sliding up to cup their daughter’s head. “Brilliant observation,” he said, and grunted quietly when Mycroft elbowed him sharply. “Not in front of our daughter,” he berated, grinning. “We’re trying to be good influences, remember?” There was a brief pause before Greg spoke again. “What’s her name, Myc? Our little girl needs a name.” 

 

Mycroft shifted the baby on his chest as her cries quieted, and he lifted a corner of the towel to wipe away a streak of blood on her cheek. “Jennifer?” he suggested. “A derivation of Guinevere. Not quite as much of a mouthful, slightly more modern, but not common.” 

 

“Jennifer,” Greg repeated, as if testing the name for suitability. “Our little Jenny. I think it’s beautiful. Do you think so, Jennifer?” he asked, stroking a thumb over his baby’s chubby cheek. She smacked her lips tiredly in response, eyes blinking open just briefly before closing again. The flash of blue had stolen the air from both of their throats - bright blue, almost piercingly so. “I think...that was a yes,” Greg breathed, and Mycroft nodded stoically in front of him. 

 

“I do believe it was,” he agreed. On his chest, Jennifer blinked again, and then opened her eyes once more, looking around as though observing her fathers and the room around her. Her senses weren’t fully developed yet, but as the baby girl snuggled closer against Mycroft’s ample chest, Mycroft knew she was bonding with them, learning their smells and sounds and the feel of them both, an instinct left over from days long gone. Jennifer’s tiny fingers curled into a fist over Mycroft’s heart, and he laid his hand over hers, blinking back tears. 

 

Minutes later, miles away on the other side of London, a mobile phone beeped a text alert in Sherlock’s pocket as he crouched over a muddy track of footprints. He straightened up and pulled the device from his pocket, and beside him, John Watson craned his neck to see the photo and accompanying message. 

 

 _Congratulations, and welcome Jennifer - SH_ went the reply text only moments later. Sherlock did his best not to smile as John clapped him on the shoulder and cheerfully congratulated the new uncle, but the smallest of grins split his face as he returned once more to the task at hand. 

 


End file.
